Resilience
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: The story of a boy who rose from nobody to Highlord and Rengent Lord in King Wrynn's absence. These are the humble beginnings of Bolvar Fordragon.


Screams echoed through the streets as pandemonium surrounded them under the siege of the Mighty Horde of orcs as their beloved city of Stormwind fell around them. The warrior turned to look back at a group of orcs fast approaching, sword in one hand, his small son in his other arm. If they kept running, the orcs would catch up and kill them both, but if he stood to fight, his son might at least have a chance, thus he made the hardest decision of his life. He put his son gently on the ground behind him, the boy clinging to his leg in confusion as his father embraced him one last time.

"Run, Bolvar," he said as he straightened into a fighting stance, "I'll hold them off, but you must run!"

"Poppa?" the child was confused and frightened.

"RUN, BOLVAR!" he yelled, pushing his son away as the orcs got closer, "You must live, my son."

The boy, Bolvar, turned to run, part of him knowing he had to get away, the other unwilling to leave his father, the only family he had. He looked back as the monstrous green creatures fell upon his father as he fought against them valiantly, tears streaming down his face. He stumbled as he saw another of those fiendish monsters caught sight of him, tusks gleaming in the light of the blazes around them, a wicked grin on his face. He felt strong, armor-clad arms scoop him up and thought for a moment that his father had gotten away and looked into his rescuers face to see it was a soldier.

"C'mon, lad," he said as he ran with the child, "Your father had the right idea!"

They ran, but it seemed like an instant later, the soldier was felled by an arrow that pierced his armor with such force it embedded itself in his back and dented his breastplate, narrowly missing Bolvar's small heart. The soldier fell, keeping the boy tucked against him, his blood staining the child's shirt.

"Run, lad," he gasped, "Save yourself."

He ran, how long and how far he didn't know, his heart aching and hoping against hope that somehow his father had escaped and would soon catch up to him. But he never did, it was another peasant with his own family that scooped up the child once Stormwind was far behind and the orcs no longer pursued them. They kept the child with him as they made the long journey to the lands of Lordaeron where many refugees from Stormwind, among them Prince Varian, had sought refuge. The small family looked after him, cared for him until another mouth to feed was simply to much of a burden and he was left to fend for himself on the streets. So it went for five years, he learned to survive on the mean streets, sleep where he could, steal what he needed, proving at such a young age the resilience which would serve him well. The streets taught the young boy their hard lessons, taught him to survive, taught him to fight and defend himself, toughened him up so he feared nothing. At ten years of age, he was scrawny and malnourished, but he was stronger than most children his age, strong enough to fend off an adult.

"Whatcha gonna do, boy?" the man taunted, a wicked grin on his face, "Punch me?" he roared with laughter, "Punch my little nosie? I'll even make it easy for you," he knelt down so he was eye level with the boy, "C'mon, boy, let's see what you've got."

Bolvar looked at the man with a calm, almost bored look on his face, leaning away from the stench of the man, quite tired of his taunts, so he punched him. That small fist landed hard on his face with surprising force, Bolvar felt the bone and cartilage crack under his knuckles as the blood gushed from the man's now-broken nose.

He fell back shocked that a child had broken his nose and stared at the boy whose vivid green eyes stared back fearlessly. Little brat hadn't even turned to run, was in fact standing in a crouched stance clearly ready to defend himself if necessary. Shock gave way to fury and before the boy could get out of reach, he grabbed the small wrist and pulled him close.

"Why you impudent little-!" he growled, unsheathing a long, very beaten sword, "I'll teach you to mess with me!"

He slammed the boy's wrist onto a nearby table, holding it as he raised his sword and those green eyes widened with fear as he realized what the man was about to do. He struggled, but he was no match for the strength of a full grown adult, all he could do was turn his head and close his eyes as he prepared for the blade to come down. The sharp clang of metal against metal made him. That alone sat between his wrist and the sharp blade that was still held against it, holding the blade that shielded his wrist was an adult dressed in fine clothing with brownish hair. The man whose nose Bolvar had broken gazed down in shock before looking into the stern face of a man much higher in society than he with a shiny well-sharpened blade in hand. Thick brows sat low over pale eyes in an intimidating glare as he regarded the blackguard before him.

"That's quite enough of that, I think," he said, his gruff voice low and commanding.

"Lord Fording," the man got out.

"Begone!" the nobleman commanded, "Before I rethink the wisdom of letting you breathe."

Without another word, the man took off as Bolvar's savior sheathed his sword and turned to look at the child who'd come close to losing a hand.

Not only could he feel a strong presence of the Light in this boy, he could see it shining like fire in those green eyes staring up at him curiously. It was one reason Tirion Fordring had hastened to the boy's side; to think he'd only been about to ensure that all was well in Hearthglen. He knelt down so he was eye level with the child who couldn't have been much older than his own son Taelan.

"Come now, lad," he said gently noting that though the boy was relaxed his eyes were wary, "Where are your parents?"

"Don't have any… sir," he replied.

"Oh?" That explained why he was filthy and half-starved, "What happened?"

"My father died when Stormwind fell," he said.

"And your mother?"

"Died when I was born."

"Well then, lad," Tirion stood up, "You've got potential, you're young yet and already the Light has blessed you, so you work hard and learn well, I'll train you."

"Train me for what?"

"To walk the path of the Light, lad, as a paladin. I'll give you a home, keep you fed and clothed so long as you keep up with your lessons. Now, you have a name?"

"Bolvar, Bolvar Fordragon."


End file.
